


Do you think love is only for the lucky and the strong?

by myrish_lace



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Jon and Sansa Are Not Related, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-07
Updated: 2016-10-11
Packaged: 2018-08-18 15:11:26
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,919
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8166340
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/myrish_lace/pseuds/myrish_lace
Summary: Jon Snow's just moved to town after a stint in the army. His favorite delivery jobs are for the two shopkeepers at Highgarden Florists. Margaery's the one everyone talks about, but Sansa Stark...Where Jon learns how to "say it with flowers".





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I thought of this idea after reading a great fanfic (I wish I'd bookmarked it!) about Jon Snow and the language of flowers. I ran with it and wound up in this floral ship where Sansa's a floral wedding designer, Margaery is her partner in crime, and Jon learns how to make flower bouquets. 
> 
> This is my first modern AU and my first "Jon and Sansa aren't related" fanfic. Hope you like it so far! :)
> 
> Title adapted from the song "The Rose".
> 
> As always I do my very best to check for typos, but if you find one, please let me know in the comments and I will fix it!

The streets were almost deserted, and the last cars full of students had headed home for winter break. Jon had one address left on his list. Highgarden Florists. The shop was a lush green oasis in the middle of the Boston winter. 

Jon had only been here for two weeks. GI Bill grants covered his criminology courses. His apartment was quiet at night. He missed the noisy barracks and the crew - Sam, Pyp, Edd, Grynn. 

The two women behind the counter hardly noticed the jingling chimes as he came in. 

"Your wife will be eating out of your hand tonight." The blond woman tossed her hair and gave the lone customer a dazzling smile. Her green sweater was low-cut and hugged her body.

The man nodded nervously. He had horn-rimmed glasses and a new wedding band.  "We just got our photo album back, everyone loved the flowers, Ms. Stark." 

The redhead at the register inclined her head. "I'm glad, Mr. Sanderson."  The man brushed past Jon on his way out. "Can we help you?" 

"I'm here to drop off a package for Ms. Sansa Stark." Her red hair was up in a fancy bun. She looked like a dancer, and her black top skimmed her shoulders. Her smile was gracious and sweet. She blinked, and Jon realized it had been about a minute since anyone spoke. 

"Do you need me to sign for it?"

"No.

The blond cocked an eyebrow. "And you still came in to deliver it? Aren't you a boy scout." 

Jon shrugged. "It's sleeting, I want to make sure people get what they need, if I can." 

"What's your name?"

"Jon Snow." 

"I'm Margaery Tyrell." She looked at him thoughtfully. "You deliver every week?"

"Yes."

"Can you do heavy stuff, bags of dirt? We've got a dock out back."

Jon delivered all over town. "Sure."

"Great! It's a deal. Will you shake on it?  Not me, her. She's the one who runs the numbers." Sansa took the brown package from him. Her handshake was firm.

"Thank you for bringing it inside. We do have deliveries go missing, and I don't know if this would have survived out in the cold and wet." She held the package carefully, and Jon sensed it was important to her.

"Well open it already." Margaery nudged her playfully. "He went to all this trouble to bring it in, doesn't he get to see what's inside?"

Sansa flushed and Jon felt a twinge of sympathy - these two were likely friends, but Sansa seemed more reserved. Maybe she wanted to open it when she was alone.

"You don't need a stranger hovering over you."

"Oh hush, you're hardly a stranger, you work for us now." Jon wondered if maybe he should have nailed down more of the particulars before agreeing with Margaery. "Tear that paper, girlfriend." Sansa gasped when she saw the book's title. "A History of Flowers." 

"Aw, another one for your library," Margaery said.

Jon was bemused. "Flowers have histories?"

"Sansa's like a flower whisperer." Margaery smiled at Sansa fondly.  "It became all the rage after the royal wedding, Kate Middleton's bouquet was very symbolic. Though 'sweet William' flowers for her 'sweet William' was a little much."

Sansa took pity on Jon. "I specialize in putting arrangements together, usually for weddings. When people get married they have more time and money to consider what they want to say, and how to say it."

Margaery broke in. "It's sort of the opposite of Valentine's Day. Everyone thinks Valentine's Day is great for floral shops. Have you ever worked retail? It's like prepping for Black Friday. Nobody wants to work Valentine's Day. It's a money-maker but oof, it's not easy. You see all these glass cases? One week from now they'll be packed with one product and one product only - red rose bouquets."

Jon had given Ygritte a red rose, once, and she laughed and put it between her teeth and winked at him. _You're soft, Snow_.

Sansa pulled the front window drapes shut. "The last minute arrivals are my favorite."

Margaery perked up. "Especially the man who does not want to give his wife red roses on Valentine's day. Who thinks he's being unbearably creative by getting something other than red roses, but has also waited for the last minute. Entitled, and cocky. Watch, we'll show you." Margaery ushered him in front of the cash register. Stand there, just there." Sansa hopped in the back as Margaery struck a pose behind the counter. These two are starved for entertainment, Jon thought.

"Sansa?"

"Yes, Margaery?" Sansa poked her head out.

Margaery patted Jon's arm. "Sansa here is our wedding expert, but we pull her in at times like this. This man..."

Sansa whispered to Jon. "Tell us you want flowers, but not red roses."

"I...want flowers, but not red roses-"

"You." Margaery pointed at his chest. "You sir, are a visionary. Tell me, what do you want to say the fair lady in your life?"

Jon was on the spot. "Something more complicated than I love you?

"What kind of love?" Sansa finished wiping down the counter. "Have you been together for 10 years?"

"...No?"

Margaery dove in. "So I'm going to guess its a young love then, an exciting new romance - oh! Wait! in the back!"

Sansa gave a mock shake of her head and held up her hand. "No, Margaery, we've been saving those for the Clarington wedding-"

"Very posh affair -" Margaery whispered to Jon.

"-And they paid in advance." 

Margaery cooed. "But just look at him." Jon was pretty sure he looked bewildered, and amused.

Sansa's voice was stern. "Absolutely not, Margaery." 

"That lovelorn face."

Sansa cocked her head, considering. "Well..."

Margaery looked imploringly from Jon to Sansa. "That heart full to bursting with sentiment."

Sansa's eyes softened. "It is sweet of you...All right. I'm going to make an exception." Sansa tossed the rag into the trash for effect. " And I dive in the back-"

"Don't forget to muss your hair love! How much should we charge him?" Margaery asked.

"How late is it?"

Margaery squinted at the clock. "After 7 pm."

Sansa's reply was swift. "$200 minimum."

"$200?!" Jon was flabbergasted. 

"Trust us, you're desperate, you'll pay it, we're not worried," Sansa called from the warehouse. She ran back in, here arms full of pink roses. "Here they are, sir."

Jon clapped. Sansa and Margaery curtsied, holding hands. Sansa started arranging the blooms in the blue glass vase in the window. "And now we've got our display for tomorrow morning." Jon breathed a sigh of relief. He'd thought there was a five percent chance Margaery might have asked him to buy them. He didn't have $200 to his name, let alone in his pocket. 

"What do pink roses mean?"

"It depends on the shade," Sansa said, placing the flowers carefully. "Light pink can mean admiration; dark pink means thankful."

Jon saw everything from buds to full blooms in the vase. "So light and dark pink could mean I admire you, and I'm thankful." Sansa smiled. "Yes. Thank you for bringing my package in safe and sound, and thanks for indulging us tonight."

Margaery winked at Jon. "And we'll see you tomorrow night! We can work out the details then. Thanks, you're a sweetheart."

He heard a murmur behind him as the door swung shut.  "Oh please, Sansa. Just because you have a boyfriend doesn't mean you can't look, darling."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Up next - Jon and Sansa handle Mother's Day deliveries and get closer over Chinese food. :)


	2. Chapter 2

Highgarden Florists had two delivery trucks. One gleamed white in the sun, and had the shop's gold rose logo emblazoned on the side. Margaery called the other one the "get around" truck. It was an old moving van, with chipped yellow paint. Jon was embarrassed to admit he'd been surprised when Sansa hopped in the van for their first delivery trip.  

"You drive stick?"

Sansa had glanced in the mirror as she pulled out of the lot. "We picked this one up for cheap because I knew how to drive a manual. It gets the job done. Marg can't drive it and she prefers the newer truck."

Highgarden was short-staffed since Margaery's brother Loras left to spend a year in Italy. Jon still brought supplies every week, but he'd started helping with deliveries. His night-time classes left him with plenty of free daylight hours. Weekly delivery trips with Sansa became the norm. Margaery thrived on a steady flow of customers, and had "zero interest in hauling around in that beat-up truck. Jon will help you with deliveries, won't you Jon?" He might have resented Margaery's honeyed smile a bit, if it didn't mean more time with Sansa. 

They'd both worked hard prepping for Mother's Day. Jon had thought Valentine's Day was as busy as it got. He'd been wrong. The back of the van was packed with arrangements of lilies, tulips, balloons and daffodils.

"The balloons drive me crazy," Sansa said as she rolled the back door of the van shut. "They take up so much space. Why call a florist for balloons? Do we look like a party store?"

Jon smirked. "Doesn't Margaery say they're a -"

"'High-margin add-on item'?" Sansa rolled her eyes. "Yes, she does. She is right. Notice she doesn't load the truck?" Sansa returned the smirk. "Don't get me wrong, she's a hell of a saleswoman. I'm just glad you're here to help on the back end." 

 Jon's hand was cramped from all the "Happy Mother's Day!" messages he'd written. This wasn't his favorite holiday. He tried to be cheerful about it as they dropped off arrangements at dorms, office buildings, and retirement homes. Finally Sansa swung the wheel over and pulled into the Chinatown parking lot. They stopped here every week, at a place with fast service, aluminum chairs and paper straws. It was loud, and crowded, but they could usually get a table by the corner. They made sure to wait until after the flowers were out of the truck. The spicy smell of ginger and fried food could linger. 

"I'm just hoping to get through our Mother's Day celebration without a zillion questions about my love life." Sansa sat down and brushed a strand of hair away from her forehead. Boston heated up fast in the summer. "How about your mom? Does she bug you about it? Grandkids, settle down, that business?"

"My parents died when I was young. My aunt took me in." He remembered being fed, and clothed, and largely ignored. His aunt took it as a personal insult that his father was dead, as if he could have prevented the car crash somehow. He'd come to her once with a cut, crying, and she sighed and bandaged it. _I take care of you, feed you, keep a roof over your head, because I promised your father. But I'm not your mother._ It hurt, to to be held responsible for something beyond his control. He kept out of her way, and enlisted as soon as he was old enough.  His aunt's reaction to grief wasn't rational, but the sting was still there. 

"She must have loved you very much."

"...She was kind." Sansa looked at him for a long moment and he thought maybe he hadn't fooled her after all. _New topic._ A memory of his friend Sam came to mind: When you're stuck, Jon, especially with pretty girls, ask them a specific question about their favorite subject.

"What was your favorite flower arrangement for a wedding?" 

Sansa blushed. "I had an old couple come in, they were renewing their wedding vows, it was their 50th wedding anniversary. You know the old Methodist church by the library?"

Jon drove by the tan stone building every day. "The one with the big stained glass windows?"

"Yes. That's where they had the ceremony. Anyway, they wanted an arrangement. The shop had already closed. I was tired, to be honest, ready to go home, not giving it my best." Jon tried to imagine Sansa that way. He'd only ever seen her give it everything she had. "I haul out the big picture book of flowers and try to put some energy into it, it's their 50th wedding anniversary, they deserve it." 

The waiter came and they ordered from the fold out menus. Jon was glad Sansa picked fried rice and sesame chicken. When they'd first come here she'd seemed almost guilty about eating, but she'd gotten more comfortable over time.

"They ignored the photos. The husband turned to his wife and took her hands and honest to god, started singing, that old song by Frank Sinatra, "You Make Me Feel So Young"?

"I can't say I know that song." 

"It's a big band number from the 1940s. And they get up, and start dancing in the store. They can really dance."

"I've noticed that," Jon said, "older couples, at weddings."

Sansa's eyes were far away. "She started singing, too, they're singing the song together, dancing, and he dipped her, at the end, and they must have been 70 years old, but they looked young, Jon, like two kids, in love. They sit back down, and the wife looks at me and says, 'make us up something that feels like that song.'"

"So what did you do?"

Sansa fiddled with her straw. "Primroses, baby's breath, and ivy. Young love, pure at heart, wedded bliss." She paused. "Go ahead, laugh, I know, it's cheesy, I'll wait."

He didn't feel like laughing. It was a sweet story. He hoped his parents had loved each other that much. "I bet they really liked the flowers." 

Sansa smiled. "They did." 

The bill came complete with two fortune cookies. Jon had learned early on Sansa was a little superstitious about them, and knew better than to ask her to open hers. They were carrying their take-out boxes to the van when Jon sensed someone walking up behind them. 

"Excuse me, but a beautiful lady such as yourself should not have to carry anything in this dreadful heat. Please, let me help you."

This guy can't be serious, Jon thought. Then he caught a glimpse of a tall, striking man with dark skin and intense hazel eyes. The kind of man who could pull off a line like that. 

"Oberyn Martell." The man bowed to Sansa in the parking lot as the heat shimmered off of the blacktop. He reached for her hand. 

Sansa flinched, but recovered quickly. "Thank you, but my boyfriend and I were just leaving." She laced her fingers with Jon's. Oberyn looked Jon up and down, then turned back to Sansa. "He is a very lucky man. My apologies to both of you."

Sansa breathed a sigh of relief as he left. "I'm sorry about that, Jon. He just...frightened me." 

"Are you ok?" She still hadn't let go of his hand.

"Yes. Yes, I'm fine. We should get back." She paused by the truck, and Jon let himself enjoy the sensation of holding her hand, being close to her. He knew it wouldn't last. 

She squeezed his fingers. "I startle easily. I'm working on it."

"It's fine, Sansa." He wasn't entirely telling the truth. It was more than fine, to be near her, but he knew she was seeing someone. He was glad she felt safe with him, at least. He held onto the thought as he drove home from the shop later that night. 


	3. Chapter 3

“What happened, Jon? Why didn't you call me?”

He had called the shop, to tell them he couldn't make it, but he hadn't wanted to tell the he'd sprained his ankle in such a dumb way. Margaery had murmured sympathetic words, but he could tell her mind was somewhere else. He hadn’t expected to see Margaery or Sansa for a few weeks, and he’d been surprised when Sansa knocked on his door. She’d dropped him off at his apartment before, but it was still strange to see her in the doorway, in her dark jeans and sneakers. Her pink top kept sliding off of one shoulder as she walked around his apartment, tidying up, Ghost at her heels.

"The doctor thinks I should be better in about ten days." Sansa nodded and tossed some clothes off the couch to sit next to him, the cushion dipping under her weight. If only he'd cleaned his apartment before he fell. There was still half a pot of coffee in the kitchen and leftover pizza in the fridge. He really wished he'd put his laundry away, too. Sansa did not need to know he wore striped boxer briefs. "I'm sorry about the mess."

"I have three brothers, Jon, your apartment's practically a testament to cleanliness." Sansa winked and tucked her legs under her. "And I promise not to tell Marg about the briefs when she asks.”

She was uncomfortably close. “How did you sprain it?” Her blue eyes were full of concern, and Jon let some of his guard down. This was Sansa, she wouldn’t mock him for his stupidity.

““Pretty boring story. I was walking Ghost to the park and I see this kid dart out into the street. I grabbed him by and pulled him back before he could lurch out into traffic, but I stepped off the curb at a weird angle and twisted my foot. Ghost got me home.” He’d limped back to his apartment. The next morning his ankle had been swollen and an unusual shade of purple. When he’d put weight on it as he got out of bed, his leg almost collapsed under him.

Sansa stroked Ghost’s white fur. “How did you get to the doctor?”

“I just pushed through. Thankfully it’s my left foot, it wasn’t too hard to drive.” The trip had been painful, but he’d put his mind to it, and gotten it done. After all, what was the alternative?

Sansa sighed. “You could have called me, Jon. I would have taken you.”

“I didn’t want to worry you.” He didn’t want her to see him weak, either.

“What do you think, Ghost? Should Jon have called me?” She scratched him behind the ear. He had been worried about Sansa meeting Ghost. Ghost wasn't a friendly dog, his large size made him menacing, and when he bared his teeth without making a noise it scared the neighborhood kids, but he took to Sansa right away.

Ghost’s tail thumped on the carpet. Sansa smiled. “You’ve got more sense than he does. See Jon? Ghost agrees with me.”

“You gave him a dog treat two minutes ago.”  Jon smiled too.

Sansa put a hand on his arm. “Jon. Seriously. You could have called me.”

“Sansa, really, it's all right." He felt useless here on the couch, and his old pride flared up. He could take care of himself.  Sansa leaned over and gently brushed the hair from his forehead. He probably needed a haircut, and a shave. "Jon. I get it. I know you could do this alone. You don’t have to. I’ve got some extra time, July isn’t very busy at the shop. Let someone else help you out, ok?"

He'd thought he'd been convincing, about his aunt, and his past, but he must have let some of the pain show through. Sansa didn't make him feel endangered or exposed. It dawned on him slowly that she made him feel...cared for. "Ok."

“Great. That’s settled. I can come by to walk Ghost after work. After all, you wouldn’t want to miss all of the exciting florist shop gossip, would you?”

“Wouldn’t miss that for the world.”

She hesitated, then kissed him on the cheek, a second too long. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Maybe twisting his ankle wasn’t such a bad break after all.

***

A month or so later, after Jon was on his feet again, Jon met Sansa’s boyfriend. Sansa was sitting in the rear corner of the shop, in an intense discussion with a young couple. Margaery greeted him as she finished wrapping up a bouquet of daffodils for a star-struck boy. Margaery was gorgeous, in an obvious way, and men fawned over her frequently.  “Hey handsome. Sansa’s not doing deliveries this afternoon. Big client. We don't have many deliveries to go out, they can hold till tomorrow.”

Jon heard laughter from the back. “How’s she doing?”

Marg smirked. “Killing it, per usual. She’ll bring in about $8,000, I’m guessing. They’re a rich family, ‘old money’, the Arryns.”

“’Old money?’”

“I forget, you didn’t grow up on the East coast. Where are you from again?”

 Jon had told her at least ten times. “Minnesota.” Margaery’s brow furrowed. “Is that close to Chicago?”

Jon rolled his eyes. “No, it’s not. But I know it’s all –“

“’Fly-over country’ as far as I’m concerned.” Margaery waved her hand breezily. “Yep. Call me a snob, but there’s not much of interest between here and Los Angeles. Anyway. ‘Old money’ is a family who’s been wealthy for ages, sometimes hundreds of years. The Arryns practically came over on the Mayflower.”

“What difference does that make?”

Margaery shrugged. “Here in Boston ‘old money’s’ better, higher-class. Some people think ‘new money’ families show off their wealth too much, they’re too ostentatious. Look, here comes a walking example now.”

A blond haired man strode into the room in a velvet blazer and a scarf wrapped around his neck. He wore a large gold watch.

“Where is she?” Jon didn’t like his tone. Margaery put on the smile Jon knew was for annoying customers. "Joffrey, lovely to see you. Sansa's just in the back, with a customer."

He sneered. "Well she's late, and she's coming with me."

"Joffrey -" Margaery sighed and held Jon back when Joffrey grabbed Sansa's arm. "Don't, doll. Let it go."

How could he let it go? No one should be manhandled like that. "Why? Shouldn't we help her?”

Margaery rubbed her forehead. "That's her boyfriend. I've told her, Jon, every way I know how, that he's not worth it. He’s an asshole.” She made a face. “I mean, who wears velvet in September? And did you see that watch?. But Sansa's mother introduced them, and she feels like she has to give him a chance.” Sansa seemed to shrink when Joffrey approached. She gestured across the table, but he shook his head. 

Margaery sighed.  “He won't care that she’s got customers. He doesn't think she should work at all.” 

***

"So....Joffrey?" Jon had a few minutes alone with Sansa the next day.

Sansa winced as she parked the truck in front of her apartment. "I'm sure you saw that display in the back yesterday. My mother wants me to marry into a good family. She's old fashioned that way. Joffrey's the ‘right kind’ of boy.” Jon didn't see what was right about cruelty.

“Do you like him?” His bluntness seemed to take Sansa by surprise, and he sensed he’d gone a step too far. Sansa cooled, visibly. “Don’t worry about it, Jon.”

He couldn’t let it go that easily, though. A month later, as the leaves were turning, Sansa showed up for deliveries in a sweater. Jon hadn’t thought anything of it until she peeled it off that afternoon when the sun had warmed the air in the cabin. A series of purple bruises that looked like finger marks ran up her right arm. Joffrey.

"Did he do that?" His voice was rougher than he'd planned. 

Sansa sighed and pulled the sweater back on. "It's fine, Jon."

"It's not, Sansa." 

“Well it's not something you get to pick, one way or the other, is it?” Her shoulders were drawn, and her voice was distant. “I may not have been in the army, but I can manage it.”

"I know you can, but -"

“You don't know.” A month ago he wouldn’t have been able to detect the tremor behind her forceful words. "Please, Jon, not you, too. Don't start. I'm not weak."  They’d driven in silence and she’d hopped out shut the door quickly when he dropped her off at her apartment. He watched her until she got the key in the lock, and waited until she was inside, as if that small act could somehow keep her safe.

Marg called him the next day. “We’ve got a bit of a lull in September, Jon. Could you check back in about a month? I’ll call you if anything comes up before then.”

He hadn’t realized how much he’d come to rely on seeing Sansa every week. He filled up the extra time by studying for midterms and hitting the gym. He’d never made friends easily, and he suspected he felt the loss of Sansa’s company more strongly than she felt the loss of his.

***

Sansa called him crying a few weeks later. "Jon, I can’t explain, and I’m sorry to bother you, but could you give me a ride? I know it’s late –“

He cut her off. He could care less about what time it was. The pain in her voice was like a knife in his chest. “Where are you, Sansa? I’ll get in the car now.” She rattled off an address and he didn’t even grab his coat in his haste to leave, despite the cold.

He broke the speed limit the whole way to the bar. His mouth was dry and his heart was racing. Sansa was waiting outside next to a streetlight, wobbling on high heels. She broke for the car as soon as she saw him. Her hair was down and she used it to shield her face. He loosened his grip on the steering wheel as she buckled her seat belt. She was with him and she was safe, for now. 

Sansa gave him a tremulous smile. Her hair was down, and she was wearing a low-cut, backless red dress that would have stunned Jon speechless any other time. Right now, all he cared about was how her eyes were full of tears and the way she was shaking.

“Thank you Jon.”

“All you all right?” He wanted to ask her a thousand questions. Was it Joffrey? Did he hit you? Someone else? Are you hurt?  
“I just. .... I need to go home, and I thought I had a ride.”  
  
He was thankful he remembered how to get to her apartment. Sansa didn’t want to talk. The ride seemed to calm her. She’d stopped crying by the time he pulled up to the leafy street where she lived. He cut the engine and put the car in park. It was very quiet in the car, apart from Sansa sniffling.

“I ...” Sansa breathed in. “I think I night need your help getting up the stairs.”

“Sure. Let's get you inside.” He hoped he sounded more confident than he felt. She had to lean heavily on him to make it up the concrete steps.

“My bedroom’s down the hall, to the right. Marg’s is on the left.” Jon could have guessed, from the rock posters and the feather boa he glimpsed through the first doorway. He was uncomfortably aware of how little Sansa was wearing, and how tightly she gripped his waist.

Her bedroom was a surprise. He’d been prepared for lots of pink and an elaborate, ornate bed frame. The room was full of neutral colors, with light gray walls. A few pressed flowers in box frames hung above the bed. It was elegant, and understated.  “Let me get you some water.” He grabbed a bottle from the fridge. Sansa’s handwriting graced the whiteboard on the wall, with a message for Margaery encouraging her to have a great time on vacation.

Sansa managed to unscrew the cap. She gestured towards the bed. “I didn't want this to be how you found out I slept with your shirt.” Jon was thrown for a loop until he saw the flannel shirt he’d given her a while ago peeking out from the cream colored bedspread. Sansa had started to cry again.

“Hey. Hey. It's ok, Sansa.”

She sipped from the bottle and placed it carefully on her bed stand. “It's not. I shouldn't be with him.” She wrapped her arms around herself.

He tried for humor. “Well, you're right about that. I don't think you should be with an asshole."

She looked over at him. Her eyes were dreamy and a little unfocused. “I should be with you.”

She kissed him before he could fully process what was happening. Her lips were soft, and warm, and he slid his arm around her waist. He ran his hand through her hair. It felt like he’d imagined, a waterfall of silk. She pulled him closer, stumbling, and the alcohol on her breath brought him back to himself. She was drunk, and this wasn’t the time, no matter how good she felt in his arms, no matter how much his body protested. He disengaged gently.

“Let's get you in bed. You need to rest.”

She clung to his arm. “I want you, Jon. I'm too shy to tell you but I'm not, now.” This was going to be harder than he thought. He allowed himself one last caress of her cheek. “Sansa, you've had too much to drink. You need to sleep.”

She sat on the bed. “It's fine. You probably have a girlfriend.”  He knelt in front of her. “I don't, Sansa.”  Her eyes were rimmed with red and he wanted nothing more than to crawl into bed with her, to curl up with her until the morning, to hold her until she stopped crying.

“Then stay with me, Jon.” The yearning in her soft voice almost broke him. He was on the verge of telling her he wanted her so much it scared him. She didn’t need any of that right now, though, and he wasn’t about to put her through it.

“I can’t, Sansa.”  She shook her head. “You won't. All right. If you're not staying, please go.” She sounded a little more like herself. He hoped the water had helped. "Margaery will be home from the airport in a few hours. Thanks for getting me."

He pleaded with her. "Please text me in the morning. Tell me you're all right." She nodded. He'd been dismissed. 

His phone buzzed at 3:02.  Marg's number. 

-She's fine thanks doll you're a hero-

He put the phone down carefully and booted up his computer. Sansa had told him a lot of the resources she used when putting together floral arrangements were online. He glared at Ghost. “Not a word, you hear?” Jon ran a hand over his face. He’d botched it, talking to her about Joffrey, and he was worried she’d feel rejected after tonight. He’d never been good with words. What did he want to say? He scrolled through the list of flowers and meanings. He might make a fool of himself, but he had to try.

Beautiful. Brave. Worth protecting. He couldn’t tell her, but maybe he could show her.

 


	4. Chapter 4

Sansa’s head was splitting. Why did today of all days have to be sunny? She tried to slip into the shop unnoticed. The door chimes were unnaturally loud.

Marg made a beeline for her as soon as there was a lull. “I told you, you didn’t have to come in today. You look like the walking dead.”  
Margaery had been worried about her when she came home last night, proclaiming she’d never seen Sansa that drunk. She’d pressed for details about Jon’s "rescue”, as she called it, but Sansa was tight-lipped about it. Jon’s refusal still hurt.

Marg was relentless. “Spill. Now. What happened?”

“Joff was just being himself, and I got fed up, and I called Jon to come get me.”

“He showed up on time, right?” Sansa thought he’d probably driven a little recklessly to get there. “Yes.”

“Did he pester you about it?” Marg knew Sansa was sensitive about Joffrey. “No, he didn’t. He just helped me.”

“And then he kissed you.” Sansa had let that one detail slip during the first five minute Marg came home. She’d left her suitcases in the hallway and plied Sansa with coffee. Sansa had still been reeling and “he kissed me, Jon kissed me” had been practically the first words out of her mouth.

Sansa groaned. “Yes, Marg, he did, then he stopped, because he doesn’t think about me that way.”

Marg tilted her head. “Did he say he didn't think about you that way?”

“No.”

“Did he kiss you back?”

“...Yes. But then he stopped, and he left.” She knew she sounded petulant. Couldn’t Marg let her be until the extra-strength Tylenol kicked in?

“Honey, he just saw you go through a bad breakup. You were vulnerable and he didn't want to take advantage. He's a good guy. I know they're new to you, but they do exist. Here, maybe this will make you feel better.” Marg pulled an unwieldy vase out from behind the counter. Sansa’s eyes lit up. "I knew it," Margarey crowed. "I knew it had to mean something, when Jon dropped it off. Who else would put together a bouquet with a tree branch?” 

"It's a rustic composition, but it's got good lines, Marg."

"Mmhm. And he's cute, too." Margaery winked and sashayed to register.

The snapdragons in the middle were tall and proud, and the green oak leaves set them off. The white heather was a lovely filler flower. He'd managed the basics: central color, white/pale accent, foliage to set it off. Snapdragons for grace and strength, white heather for protection, oak leaves for bravery.

_You are gracious and strong, brave, and worth protecting._

She took Jon's handiwork home with her when she closed up, kept it in the car seat on the ride home. The branches and flowers made her smile when she saw them on her dresser in the morning.

Jon was a world apart from the boys her mother pushed on her. She knew her mother had pretty much given up on Arya, at least for a few years. Arya boxed and did guerrilla theater and came home with a different hair color every month. Sansa envied her freedom. Some days she wished she could walk downstairs with a half-shaved head and a grungy punk t-shirt and saunter out the door without a million questions from her mother. She'd been taught to aspire upwards, to marry better, to equate success with a larger house, a Mercedes rather than an Audi, a man with box seats to the opera.

So why did she spend most of her time thinking about the "delivery boy," as her mother called him after she went on about Jon for too long over dinner? He wore thermals rather than brand-name sweaters, he hauled bags of dirt around like it was nothing, and he took the fact that she worked hard at the shop in stride, as if it was normal to be a woman with some strength and some agency. She'd showed him the plans she and Marg had for the expansion and he'd asked her questions about the layout, about how she and Marg would use the space, he'd turned the blueprint over in his hands with care. He always took what she had to say at face value, seriously, he didn't discount it because she was a girl or inflate it because she was wealthy.

She'd been drawn to Highgarden Florists in the middle of the Boston winter, when the trees were sheathed in ice and she arrived on campus at 9 am in darkness and left in darkness at 3 pm. They store felt like a small slice of summer in a brutal winter, a place where the air felt fresh and she could forget about the snow stacked 4 feet high on the sides of the streets. Finally Margaery started chatting - she recognized her boarding school sweatshirt - and she'd found her part-time job. Her mother didn't approve, but her father encouraged her. Even though she had more money than she needed, she saved up her wages from the shop to buy things that were just for her - a modern necklace Marg liked, an art deco watch or, one time, the ridiculously expensive lingerie Marg had dared her to try on at the fancy boutique up town. They were prices of herself she held dear.

Jon was another part of her life she kept to herself, close to her heart. He’d been nothing but kind since the first day he came into the shop, wet from the heavy snow and carrying a package like it was a sacred trust. He’d humored her and Marg, and he’d allayed any fears she’d had about having to share the truck when making deliveries. Looking back on it now, she thought Marg might have set her up – Marg didn’t like to make deliveries, it was true, but Marg was no fan of Joffrey.

Jon’s eyes were honest and she didn't mind how he filled out his shirts either. Marg would go on about how handsome he'd look in a tux or a suit, but Sansa liked his flannel shirts and his jeans and his Merrill boots. She'd been chilly one day, they were walking along the Charles river, stretching their legs after a delivery for some fundraiser at the Harvard business school. They'd paused to watch the crew boats go by. Sansa was telling Jon that Arya was a coxswain on a crew boat, and her team almost always won.

“It drives mom crazy, but I can’t miss her races. Her voice carries over the water - she whips her team into shape." The wind had been brisk and it was starting to sleet, that special Boston mix of ice and snow. She'd wrapped her cable cardigan tightly around her.

“Would you like this?” Jon had held out his button-down to her casually, he was getting hit by sleet himself, his blue shirt was already covered with darker blue spots.

The pattern was frayed at the sleeves, and her mother would be horrified, but all she could think about was how it would still be warm from his body heat and how he'd done it like it was the most natural thing in the world, to think of her comfort. She'd taken it gratefully and bundled herself up, and when they parted the weather was better and he hadn't asked for it back. She'd felt guilty about it, but she didn't offer, and she'd slept in it that night, and the next, something else just for her.

She and Joffrey got caught in a snow storm last year, the cab line at the opera was taking too long and she was trying to bring up her Uber app on her phone while shielding the screen from the snow. Her fingers were shaking, and Joffrey demanded to know why it was taking so long. She’d told him she was cold and he’d snapped at her, telling her she should remember a coat next time. He’d yanked her into the next free cab and sat there the whole ride home in his warm wool topcoat. He refused to look at her as she shivered in the seat next to him. He might have given her his coat along with a snide remark if she asked, but she wouldn't give him the satisfaction. Jon, on the other had, had next to nothing and was a little touchy about it, but he'd given her what he had freely.

She pulled her hair back into a ponytail. Jon would be at Highgarden Florists today. She touched an oak leaf for luck her way out. She was going to need all the help being brave she could get, to drum up the nerve to talk to him about it.

 


	5. Chapter 5

"You can do this, sweetie." Marg chucked Sansa under the chin.

Sansa was skittish about talking to Jon. Apart from one awkward spin-the-bottle game in fifth grade with Willas Tyrell, she'd never been kissed. Joffrey had shoved his tongue into her mouth a few times until he decided she was 'frigid' and he deserved other women. She still wasn’t sure why something had snapped for her that night at the bar. Joffrey hadn't been doing anything other than his usual routine, hitting on other women as soon as she headed to the bathroom. She’d come back from checking her hair, hating herself for wishing that if she was beautiful enough, Joffrey might not look elsewhere. She’d picked out the backless red dress because she knew Joffrey liked the color, and he said he wanted her to show more skin. She’d had three vodka tonics to “loosen up.” But Joffrey had his arm around a tall blond at the bar who was giggling at every opportunity. Joffrey was enjoying himself, milking the 15 minutes during which he could be charming. Joffrey had been shopping that 15 minutes around for quite some time now.

When she’d seen Jon’s old Toyota pull up to the curb she’d been flooded with relief. She’d been tipsy and made a fool of herself in the car. Jon had been a reassuring, solid presence on the drive home as she focused on not throwing up on her nude pumps. When she’d kissed Jon he hadn't treated it like it was his due, or something he was entitled to expect. He seemed like he wasn't in a hurry, that was the detail that stuck with her the most. It had felt good, damn it, one of the few times in her life she'd reached out for something and wanted it to keep going. His fingers were rough, but his touch was gentle when he traced the outline of her cheek. He’d pulled her closer before he figured out just how drunk she was, and she thought when he stopped she’d seen a moment of pain on his face.

She wanted nothing more than to get that moment back, to play it forward, she wished he had come to bed with her and - honestly she wasn't sure what to expect next, but why did he of all people have to stop?

She and Jon had danced around each other a little when he first came in, but Marg put them to work, and they’d fallen into the easy rhythm they’d had before. They’d just finished a long string of deliveries, a lot of “Good luck during finals week!” arrangements. She was relieved Jon hadn’t pressed her about what happened that night. It was refreshing and restoring to have him back. She almost talked herself out of bringing up the kiss, for fear of losing what they’d found again. Marg would never let her live that down, though, and she wanted to be brave about it. This was her last chance, before she dropped him off for the night.

“We should probably talk about it, Jon. That night - I'm sorry I pushed you.”

“It's all right, Sansa.” He looked as uncomfortable as she felt.

She could feel how close he was, the cabin of the truck wasn’t that big. “Did you want to kiss me? I wanted to kiss you, Jon, it wasn't just the alcohol, or the adrenaline, or a million other reasons I could make up. I am shy, about these things, but I meant it. I care about you.” She was prone to speed-talking when she was nervous.

He was quiet for a moment, and her heart constricted. She’d started to fear she’d lost him, before he finally spoke. “I'm shy about it too, Sansa.” He took her hand and laced his fingers with hers, like she’d done that day in the parking lot. ”Yes, I wanted to kiss you. I wanted to keep kissing you.” The corner of his mouth quirked. “I want to kiss you pretty much all the time. But you were –“

“Drunk and vulnerable and I know, it was rotten timing.”

“I just didn't want to...take something from you in case you weren't sure you wanted to give it.”

“Marg is never gonna let me live this down. She said you were being a nice guy. I said I thought you had taken pity on me.”

He chuckled. “It was not pity, I guarantee you. it was a long drive home.”

She shifted nervously, making the vinyl seat squeak. “Could we try it again?”

His gray eyes were dark. “Is that what you want?” His voice was soft, and guarded. She hesitated, thrown off by the question. Then she understood he was waiting for explicit permission, and she realized this was probably how she wanted a guy to act.

“Yes. It's what I want.”

He reached for her across the truck. She remembered her hazy daydreams as a girl she'd done about how kisses would happen, on balconies or in the middle of a dance floor or, god help her, surrounded by a field of flowers. She'd never imagined bench seats and the faint smell of diesel and how it would feel to have stubble graze her skin. He kissed her forehead, her cheeks, the corners of her mouth. He had his hand at her waist, ghosting over her skin, just under the hem of her cotton shirt.

He smelled like spice and pine needles and the last of the flowers they’d delivered together. She was tingling from the feel of his fingers against her skin. She could feel the tension in his shoulders and she thought he might be willing himself to be careful. She wasn’t sure she wanted that any more.

She sat up, pushing him into the seat, climbing into his lap, terrified and thrilled at her own daring. He had to tilt his head back to kiss her. She hung on to his shirt and kissed him for all she was worth, willing him to understand _yes, I want this, please keep going Jon, make me feel as good as I dream about you doing_. Jon traced the swell of her hip and when she slid her hands down his rib cage she swallowed the moan he made. She scraped up some courage and touched her tongue to his lips, soft but insistent. “Sansa,” he whispered. His voice was dark, lower than it had been a moment ago. He met her tongue with his, their noses bumped and their tongues danced. He swept his thumb in a soothing arc at the small of her back. She drew him up tighter, breaking away to kiss his neck, and she heard his breath hitch as she nipped at his earlobe. She leaned back –

And whacked the horn. They both jumped, as if they’d been caught doing something wrong. She started giggling, then laughing outright, and he laughed with her. Sansa drank in the warmth in his eyes and the creases at the corners of his mouth. She wrapped her arms around him and tucked her chin under his. She could hear his heart beating fast as she curled into his chest. He held her tight.

She was overwhelmed with the knowledge that he wanted her. “Is it ok if we stop?” She asked, in part, because Joffrey would have been angry at the question, at her leading him on, and she needed to know Jon was different.

“Of course, Sansa.” He said it easily, immediately, and something deep inside her relaxed.

"Thank you, by the way. For the flowers."

He kissed her hair. "Did I get it right?"

She smiled, suddenly shy. "Did you mean brave, and ...." She trailed off.

He finished for her. "Strong, and beautiful, and worth protecting." His voice was husky, and tender.

"Yes. You did."


End file.
